


Sick Owen

by roscoesantangelo



Category: Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping (2016)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, The Parent Trap - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roscoesantangelo/pseuds/roscoesantangelo
Summary: Owen gets sick, and Conner is stuck taking care of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDarkestSunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestSunrise/gifts).



> Just a fluffy little fic I wrote for fun. I don't really know... Shoutout to my friend Charlotte for helping out!

“Conner…?” Owen calls from his almost permanent spot on the couch. “Conner, can you get me some more Kleenex please?”

                Conner, currently standing in the kitchen overlooking a pot of soup, sighs and dashes to the closet to find yet another box of Kleenex. What Owen’s doing with them is beyond him. There’s no way one person needs this much Kleenex, right?

                Owen has been sick for the past two days. Yesterday morning, he woke up with a stuffy nose and a high fever, and almost immediately threw up after taking two bites of his breakfast. Ever since then, he’s been curled up on the couch, wrapped up in every blanket in the house and cuddling a stuffed brown Build-A-Bear that Conner and Lawrence got him for his birthday (named Owen Bear by Conner, who dressed it up with a custom made Style Boyz sweater, little DJ headphones, and sneakers to look like Owen). Lawrence disappeared to God knows where as soon as he realized Owen was sick—muttering something about not getting sick before he’d finished their latest song—and left Conner all alone to deal with the horrifying challenges of taking care of a sick person.

                One of the worst things, Conner is quickly realizing, is that—at least with this sick person in particular—they seem to throw up about every 45 minutes.

                Which means that Conner—who gets the _amazing_ job of cleaning out the bucket that Owen keeps puking in—also has to ensure that Owen drinks something after each time, as well as attempting to eat, so that he doesn’t get dehydrated and add that to his list of ailments. Of course, it feels very contradictory to try to get Owen to consume anything, considering the fact that he’s just going to throw it back up, and Conner will be stuck with the mess.

                “Here you go,” Conner says, handing Owen the new Kleenex box. “Try to make it last at least a few hours this time, _please_.”

                Owen smiles up at him weakly. “Thank you Conner,” he says in a rough, grated voice. Conner wonders if Owen’s got a sore throat now too.

                “So, how are you feeling?” Conner asks, a little fearful for the answer.

                Owen gives Conner a pained look that speaks for itself.

                “Right. Well, I’m making soup. Actually, that should almost be done, I’ll go grab it.”

                “I don’t want soup,” Owen mutters, sounding a bit like a petulant child. It reminds Conner of when they were five. Owen took that tone quite a bit back then.

                “You have to eat.”

                “What, so I can just throw up again?”

                Well, Owen has a point there, but Conner knows he has to keep his friend healthy.

                “Will you at least drink something? Some water? Or hey, ginger ale is supposed to be good.” Conner doesn’t think they actually have ginger ale in the house, but maybe he could get Lawrence to do his part for his best friend and run out for some.

                Owen, however, just shakes his head and pulls a blanket up to cover his face.

                “Owen!” Conner says in exasperation. He tries to tug on the blanket, but Owen holds tightly over his face. “Owen! You have to put something in your body! At _least_ some water. Don’t make me yell at you. Or call your mom. I _will_ call your mom.”

                Owen sighs and looks at Conner, his brown eyes searching his face. Sweat shines on Owen’s face, and his bangs are plastered to his forehead, while a few drier pieces stick out in curls. He seems about to say something, then doubles over and throws up again.

                “Now will you drink something?” Conner asks once Owen has finished.

                Owen just looks at him. Up close, Conner thinks he looks like he’s dying. His nose is red, his hair is simultaneously a disaster of curls and flat from where he’s been laying on it, there are dark circles under his eyes, signifying just how little he’s slept, he’s almost scarily pale, —though his cheeks are flushed red—and his eyes don’t have the same light as they usually do.

                “Come _on,_ Owen!”

Owen says nothing. Just continues to stare at him.

                Conner glares back at him for a few moments, trying to think of what on Earth to do with Sick Owen, when a beat starts playing in his mind.

                “Owen, I love you,” Conner starts to sing, standing up and looking at his friend, who is cuddling his stuffed bear and looking at him with tired eyes. “You are my number one guy. But you need to drink something, or you will die.”

                “Nice,” Owen mutters.

                “Owen, I’m just trying to help you. Should I call a doctor, or is it just the flu?”

                “Are we, are we really doing this?” Owen asks, rubbing his head and looking up at Conner.

                “Sick Owen, sick Owen, drink something or fuck you,” Conner concludes with a flourish.

                Owen rolls his eyes and squeezes the bear tighter to his chest. “Fine,” he says, defeated. “I’ll try some water. And I guess maybe a bit of soup. As long as you don’t sing anymore. It is _not_ helping my head.”

                “I’m glad you liked my sick freestyle,” Conner says, smiling.

                Owen just glares at him. Conner smiles brightly and hurries back to the kitchen, where he grabs the almost over-boiling soup off the stove, pours some into a bowl, grabs some crackers in case Owen’s feeling really adventurous, and picks up a water bottle.

                “You know this is all your fault, right?” Owen asks as Conner returns.

                “So I’ve heard,” Conner replies, arranging the soup and crackers next to Owen on the side table and handing him the water.

                “Just making sure.” Owen says, flashing Conner an angry look as he sits up and takes a slow sip of water. For a moment, he looks like he might be sick again, but he takes a deep breath and turns his attention to the soup.

                Conner grabs the bucket by Owen’s feet and takes it to the bathroom to be washed. _Again_. For such a tiny boy, who is clearly not eating much, Owen is producing quite a bit of vomit.

                Owen’s blaming Conner for getting sick, because he somehow thinks it’s his fault they never got flu-shots. Which, okay, it may have been. But still, Conner? Completely at fault for this turn of events? Ridiculous.

                Although, not according to Owen.

                “This is all your fault,” Owen had declared the day before, trying to speak through a stuffed nose.

                “My fault?” Conner asked, looking affronted. “What does this have to do with me?”

                “I told you we needed to get flu-shots. And do you remember what you said?”

                “No…” Conner, even though he remembered it quite well. He even recalled telling Owen at one point that flu-shots were for losers.

                “You said, ‘Oh Owen, stop being such a nerd, we’ll get them tomorrow. Just come out with me and enjoy the party.’” Despite Owen’s clear anger, it was hard to take him too seriously with that voice. “And even though you said this about twelve times, I somehow still believed it would get done.” Owen glared at Conner murderously. “And now we’re here,” he concluded, then sneezed.

                “Okay, but you can’t really blame me for that, right?”

                Owen just continued to glare at Conner until a fit of coughing took over.

                Now as Conner returns, Owen sits staring into his soup, though not actually eating any.

                “Are you okay?” Conner asks as he takes a seat in the arm chair next to the couch.

                Owen seems to swallow and looks up. His cheeks are even redder than they were before. “Not too sure.” He looks back down at the soup for a moment before slowly picking up the spoon and swallowing a bit of broth.

                Conner smiles at him. “There we go. I think we’re actually getting somewhere.”

                Owen has a few more spoonfuls, and even soaks a cracker in the soup and eats it, while Conner watches, beaming like a proud father.

                Owen’s about to attempt a second cracker when he suddenly sets the bowl down quickly and grabs for the bucket.

                “Oh. Great…” Conner says, watching Owen’s curls tumble forward as he bends over to puke. “Fucking great.”

               

                After that, because Owen refuses to eat, and honestly, Conner is _so_ done with cleaning puke—he’s supposed to be a popstar, how on earth did he end up cleaning up his best friend’s puke every twenty minutes? —they decide to stick to just drinking, with Conner running out for Gatorade, and ginger ale, (as well as ginger tea, which sounds interesting) and Gravol (which Owen later pukes back up just as quickly as he takes it). When Conner gets home, Owen is asleep on the couch, Owen Bear lying face down on the floor next to him. Conner walks over and picks up the bear, tucking it in between one of the many layers of blankets covering Owen. As he stands over him, Conner examines his best friend, so peaceful in sleep, and feels a pang of guilt as it occurs to him that this may have truly been his fault.

                “I’m sorry, Owen,” Conner says, pushing Owen’s hair back off his sweaty forehead. “Maybe flu-shots aren’t just for nerds.”

                “No, of course they’re fucking not,” Owen says suddenly, opening his eyes. Conner jumps back, startled, having assumed Owen was asleep. “But thank you for apologizing.” Owen smiles weakly at him. “Idiot.”

                “Oh my God, dude! What the hell? You can’t just pretend to be asleep and scare people!”

                “I wasn’t pretending. I really was asleep, until you started rubbing my forehead and woke me up.” Owen looks down at Conner’s hand and sees the Gatorade. “You got Gatorade? Gross.”

                Conner holds up the bottle and points to the label. “It’s supposed to be really good for you. Restore your electrolytes or some shit like that. Hydrate…” Conner trails off, realizing that he has literally no idea what he’s talking about. “At any rate, it should keep you alive.”

                Owen frowns at the bottle but says nothing.

                “God, you really are picky, aren’t you? I don’t think sick people are supposed to be so picky.”

                “They are if they don’t want to throw up any more than they already have.”

                Conner places the bottle on the table. “Just drink your fucking Gatorade. So ungrateful…” he mutters as he heads into the kitchen to make himself something to eat. When he returns, Owen is back to lying splayed out on the couch, looking ridiculously uncomfortable. The Gatorade sits next to him on the floor, almost untouched, except for a tiny sip.

                “After all I do for you,” Conner says, looking at the Gatorade. “You don’t see anyone else looking after you. You don’t see fucking Lawrence doing this shit. I mean, where the fuck did he even go?” Conner shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, after all I do for you, this is what I get. You are very ungrateful Owen. I mean, you could thank me for all my effort. Do you know how many stores I had to go to find Gatorade?”

                Owen scrunches up his nose. “Like one?”

                “No. Two! The first one was out of fruit punch flavour, which I thought you would like, so I went to a second one.”

                “Oh, how hard for you. I really feel your pain,” Owen responds.

                “The least I could get is a thank you.”

                “Thank you for getting me sick, Conner.” Owen says with mock-sincerity.

                Conner sighs. “You know what, never mind, whatever.” Conner turns away and glares at the wall in anger.

                Now it’s Owen’s turn to sigh. “I do appreciate your effort, Conner. I mean, it _is_ your fault, and therefore it _should_ be your responsibility, but I do value how seriously you’re taking it. I mean, I’m still not gonna drink the fucking Gatorade, but, it’s a very sweet gesture.”

                Conner turns back to look at Owen and huffs. “Fine. Do you want some ginger ale, then? I know it’s supposed to help your stomach. Or, yo, I got some ginger tea. That might be good, for you. Less fizzy.”

                “Tea sounds nice,” Owen replies, his voice cracking. Arguing with Conner probably wasn’t good for his throat.

                “I can put some honey in it, too. Might help your throat.”

                Owen nods, smiling. “See, so easy to move on from the Gatorade. Was that so hard?”

                Conner glares at him. “Yes.”

 

                When Conner comes back in, setting the tea down next to the unfinished soup, Owen is sitting upright, Owen Bear sitting on his lap on top of all the blankets, and scrolling through movies.

                “Aww, you’re so cute, you know that?” Conner says, sitting down beside Owen and opening a bag of gummies.

                Owen turns to look at him. His face is still pale, the circles under his eyes even more pronounced, his nose is dripping, his bangs are sticking up wildly from when he pushed them back, and his eyes are watery and slightly red. “Thank you,” he says before wiping his nose on his sleeve.

                “Okay, ew, no,” Conner grabs the Kleenex box off the ground and puts it in Owen’s lap. “This is what that’s for, remember?”

                Owen just smiles and picks up the remote again.

                “Gross. Poor remote.”

                Owen smiles again and continues to scroll the movies, before finally stopping when he finds what he’s been looking for, The Parent Trap.

                Conner sighs. “Oh, Owen, come on! The Parent Trap? Really?”

                “Hey, it’s a very good movie. Very comforting.”

                Conner gives him a look, but Owen shoots back by launching into a round of semi-fake coughing, so Conner relents and settles in beside him.

                Conner, however, quickly realizes that Owen was wrong about it being a good movie.

                “What the _fuck?_ ” Conner yells, almost causing Owen to spill his tea, which he’s miraculously had quite a bit of without throwing up. “What kind of shitty-ass parents would do that?”

                Owen looks at him. “What?”

“Who the _fuck_ thinks it’s a good idea to just separate the children, and like, _never_ tell them about it, and never let them meet each other, or like, try to speak to each other even again?”

“You and Lawrence never wanted to speak to each other again.”

“We didn’t have _children_ and fucking just pretend to them that they didn’t have siblings! All we had was had was you, and I know you kept in touch with Lawrence. You actually got to know both of us.”

“Did you just call me your child?” Owen scrunches his nose again.

“Just, how dysfunctional can you _get_ that never letting your child meet its twin is completely cool? And like, they each had to _pick_ a child to raise and to love, fuck the other one I guess. This movie is fucked up.”

Owen just stares at him. “You’re gonna pick apart the whole movie.”

                “Admit that it’s a stupid premise. You thought Lawrence and _I_ were dysfunctional. Look at how much worse it could’ve been.”

                Owen chews his lip and takes another sip of tea. “It is a pretty shitty thing to do,” he admits. “Not that you and Lawrence were much better.”

                “Okay, okay, fair, true. But I mean come on, these guys are parents. This is _ridiculous_. Like, to _never_ tell their child that they have a sibling? Never give them the choice of meeting them? And their other parent, for that matter.”

                “You really are just gonna sit here and analyze the movie,” Owen says, coughing.

                “Just drink your tea,” he looks over at Owen, who’s worked his way through an impressive amount of tea without throwing up. “How is it, by the way?”

                Owen gives Conner a quick smile. “It’s okay,” he reaches over to put his cup back down and knocks Owen Bear off his lap in the process.

                “Aww, Owen Bear,” Conner says, picking him up and sitting him in his own lap. “He’s been through so much these past two days.”

                “I wouldn’t want to get too close to him if I were you.”

                “Why not?” Conner asks, holding him up and admiring the little sweater.

                “For the exact reason that he’s been through so much over these past two days. You’re gonna get sick, and I will _not_ be cleaning up your puke.”

                “After everything I’ve done for you,” Conner says, mock hurt. “You owe me.”

                Owen just stares at him. “Do you need me to list everything I’ve done for you, or…?”

                “Right…” Conner says, suddenly uncomfortable. He sometimes forgets about just how big of a dick he was to Owen for the past few years, and it always hurts to realize just how much he did to his poor little brother.

                “So maybe Lawrence can take care of you,” Owen offers. As if Lawrence will go near either of them as long as they’re sick.

                “Well, it doesn’t matter, cause I’m too dope to get sick. I haven’t been sick in years.”

                “’Too dope to get sick’. What an inspiration you are,” Owen says, wiping his nose and suddenly leaning over the bucket, though he straightens up after a few moments without having done anything.

                “I know, I really am. And you, my friend, thanks to my amazing caretaking skills, seem to be getting better.”

                “Woo,” Owen says with fake enthusiasm, looking back down at the bucket.

                “Are we ready to try soup again?”

                Owen gives Conner a look that says that that is a horrible idea.

                “Okay, maybe a bit later,”

                They watch the rest of the movie in silence, except for Owen blowing his nose loudly and repeatedly, as well as coughing, making small pained noises, shifting positions every five minutes, and shooting Conner pointed looks that imply he wants his bear back, which Conner ignores. Mercifully, though, Owen doesn’t throw up once during this time.

                “Are you ever going to give me my bear back?” Owen finally asks once the movie is over. “And can you make me some more tea?”

                “Wow, someone’s getting bossy. I guess we’re feeling better?”

                Owen pulls the blankets closer around him and gives Conner a sweet and innocent look. “I’d feel even better with my bear and a cup of tea.”

                Conner sighs and messes up Owen’s hair as he walks by, dropping the bear in his lap.

                “I love you!” Owen calls after him.

                “I love you too,” Conner replies, smiling wide as he turns the kettle on.

 

                Owen ends up throwing up a few more times later in the day—groaning and griping at Conner for tricking him into trying more soup—but after that, he’s starting to do a lot better. By the next afternoon, he even manages to keep his soup down. But while Owen’s doing better, walking around the house and eating occasionally, Conner, on the other hand, is suffering.

                “Owen!” Conner calls a few days later, from where he has now taken up residence on the couch. He got up this morning and got as far as the living room before throwing himself down. His face feels like it’s on fire and his stomach is killing him. “Owen, I think I’m sick!” No response. “Owen! Owen please, help me! I think I’m dying! Call the doctor! This is it for me, I’m serious! Call Lawrence. Tell him it’s urgent! I’d like to see him one last time before I move on to the beyond!”

                “Oh, come on Conner,” Owen says, appearing in the doorway, properly dressed—for the first time in a few days—in an oversized sweater and jeans, and looking much healthier. His skin is slightly less pale, the circles under his eyes less pronounced, his face is no longer shiny with sweat, and his hair falls in curls across his forehead. He’s wearing his glasses, which makes it harder for Conner to see his eyes, the light from the window reflecting across the glass and obscuring them, but Conner is sure that if he could see them, he’d be able to detect a bit of amusement in them. “It’s just the flu. No big deal. I mean, it’s not like you’re gonna die or anything,” Owen tells him, perfectly echoing the words which Conner himself said just a few weeks before when Owen had mentioned flu-shots for about the fifth time. Conner wonders if he should be concerned with just how accurately Owen can quote him back to himself.

                “Owen…” Conner whines. “Owen, please,”

                “Guess you’re not too dope to get sick,” Owen says, surveying Conner, clearly enjoying this a bit too much. “Probably because dopeness, unlike a _flu-shot_ , can’t actually protect you from anything.”

                “I’m sorry Owen,” Conner whines again.

                Owen smiles at him, the usual sweetness of Conner’s best friend returning in his expression. “I know you are. But I think this teaches you an important lesson.”

                Conner makes a face at this. “A lesson? Like with morals? Gross.”

                Owen sighs and walks away. He returns 10 minutes later with the bottle of Gatorade, a bowl of soup, blankets, and Owen Bear.

                “You expect _me_ to drink your reject Gatorade?” Conner asks incredulously, taking Owen Bear and cuddling him. His voice comes out sounding scratchy.

                Owen just gives Conner a look as he puts the blankets over him and Conner reluctantly opens the bottle and takes a sip.

                “Poor Conner,” Owen says, wrapping him tightly in blankets and passing him the bowl of soup.

                “Aww, you’re gonna take care of me?” Conner asks as he takes the soup. It smells pretty good, but his stomach seems to be rejecting the very concept of it.

                “Someone has to,” Owen replies, sitting down on the couch next to him. “But just remember, this is all, one hundred percent, in multiple different ways, actually your fault.”

                “Right,” Conner says, pointing the spoon at Owen. He’s suddenly feeling a bit tired, and the last thing he wants is this soup. At least he hasn’t thrown up yet. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

                “Hey,” Owen holds up his hands. “It’s okay. Like I said, you’ve learned an important lesson.”

                Conner sighs and puts the soup down, then hugs Owen.

                “Hey, I can’t get sick again!”

                “You already have it. That makes you immune. Like a super-human.”

“Whoa. That’s actually very similar to how a flu-shot works. Except that this method’s a bit more painful.”

                “I don’t know; needles are pretty bad.”

                Owen laughs and ruffles Conner’s hair. “Just stop. Flu-shots are important, and you know it and you’re going to listen to me next time I have a health concern.”

                Conner leans more into Owen and groans. “Is this what you felt like that entire time?”

                “Pretty much.”

                “Well, now I know why you didn’t want the Gatorade.”

                Owen laughs.

                “So, can I say again—”

                “If it’s that you’re sorry, no. I get it. I mean, I _love_ hearing it, but also, I kind of get it.”

                “But—”

                Suddenly there’s a noise in the front entryway, and a voice calls out, “Is it safe to finally come home?”

                “Lawrence!” Owen exclaims, hopping up and running to the entryway.

                “Are you still sick?” Lawrence asks gruffly, as if Owen could be this enthusiastic while sick. Well, Conner thinks, if anyone could, it would probably be Owen. “Hey, don’t touch me! Owen!”

                Conner can only assume that Owen is now hugging Lawrence and smiles to himself as he listens to Lawrence’s outrage.

                They both appear in the doorway a few moments later, Owen pulling a grumpy looking Lawrence along behind him, tugging on the sleeve of Lawrence’s sweater.

                “Where the hell have you _been_?” Conner asks, coughing.

                Lawrence looks at him for a moment in horror. “You’re sick too now, aren’t you?”

                Conner coughs. “No…”

                “This is exactly what I was worried about,” he tells them, pulling his sleeve back from Owen. “Call me when you’re both less disgusting.”

                “It’s probably too late!” Owen yells after Lawrence’s retreating figure. “You’re already contaminated!” Lawrence just keeps walking. “Well,” Owen says, turning back to Conner as the front door slams. “That was rude.”

                Conner just nods and gestures for Owen to come sit back down.

                Owen sits and Conner goes back to leaning against him. “So, now that _I’m_ sick, is it my turn to pick the movie?”

                Owen smiles at him. “It depends what you have in mind.” He makes a questioning face. “Could it possibly be better than the Parent Trap?”

                “First of all, _any_ movie would be better than the Parent Trap, and second of all, this one happens to be one of the best. Plus, it incorporates elements of the Parent Trap in certain scenes.”

                Conner hits a few buttons on the remote and pulls up the documentary they filmed about him last year.

                “Uh, Conner?” Owen asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure about this? I mean, do you really wanna watch this? _Again_?”

                “Sure. It reminds me to stay humble.” He winks, then sneezes, getting it all over Owen’s sweater. “Besides, now I can apologize to you in detail for everything I’ve done wrong. I mean, in between coughing and sneezing and possibly throwing up.”

                “Oh _God,_ ” Owen mutters, though he settles back into the couch and puts an arm around Conner.

                “I owe you a lot,” Conner says, causing Owen to beam brightly. And that’s how they fall asleep together, a sick Conner leaning against a smiling Owen. And that’s how an exasperated Lawrence finds them later in the day, when he finally decides to finally give in and rejoin them in the house.

 


End file.
